


Just a Matter of Time

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon, Kinks, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-14
Updated: 2006-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-03 11:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8710063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Follow up to Conversations Over the Front Seat - Dean contemplates Sam's kinky fantasy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Just a Matter of Time

_**Just a Matter of Time**_  
Sequel to Conversations Over the Front Seat  
**Characters:** Sam/Dean  
**Warning: Wincest, angst, kinky, dark, sexy, weird, moody (all the things I'm famous for)**  
**Rating:** Over 30  
**Author's Notes:** This will only make sense if you read the other story first. If you haven't, use my Slash tag to find it. And thanks to those who inspired me.   
  
###########  
  
  
Sam is on his knees. He's laying chest down on a wooden crate, arms stretched out to the sides, wrists tied to the posts that hold up the barn roof. There is a knot of rope caught in the back of his too long, shaggy brown hair. Then the rope cuts harshly into his boyish face through the cheeks and the tension of the line keeps a wadded rag in his mouth. It doesn't keep him quiet. It just keeps him from making sense.   
  
He's naked.  
  
He's shivering partly from the cold and partly from the fear and he twists and pulls at the ropes on his wrists until blood drips down like a leaky faucet. Drip, drip, drip in the night. Drip, drip, drip – another urban legend.   
  
Dean doesn't look at the blood. He looks at the long, lean body of a fighter. Bruises, scars, neither of them has ever escaped completely unscathed. It's the narrow hips that draw him closer, the irrational fascination with a hipbone that is kept hidden by the fact that it's blocked from his view.  
  
His boot crushes a pinecone that has made its way into the barn and the noise gives him away.  
  
Sam stiffens. Stops struggling. Holds his breath. Unable to turn and see who is behind him.   
  
Dean knows he should speak but he's speechless. He has no breath and so no words. He moves closer, shakes with the anticipation of a collector who's found a rare treasure.   
  
_They make you fuck me_ , Sam's voice from the front seat of the Impala still plays in his head. But there's no one else here. No one to force the dream to come true.   
  
Dream?  
  
Wrong word.  
  
With an intake of breath, Dean drops down to sitting beside Sam's knees. Sam can see him now but oddly the fear doesn't disappear right away. There is no relief in those big brown Bassett hound eyes – just more questions and perhaps a tear.   
  
So gently, Dean lays his hand on Sam's bare back. Starts at the shoulder and strokes downward. Finds a thin layer of sweat even though it's quite cold in the barn. Dean rolls to one knee and lays a kiss just off center of Sam's spine and the reaction is as if he had used a branding iron.   
  
Sam makes a series of sounds that might have started out as actual words but now are nothing but deep-throated nonsense syllables by the time they hit Dean's ear.   
  
Dean drapes his warm body over Sam's cold flesh and that puts his mouth close enough to whisper, "sssh." It's supposed to be comforting but it comes out a little creepy. Dean runs his hand down Sam's arm – the muscles so tight, stretched to the limit but not ready to give in. Fingers come back up the arm, over the shoulder and across the face where the rope cuts into his cheek. Another kiss near the neck. Sam's body betrays him. More kisses across his tightened shoulders and down his side. Again a sound, but not even an attempt at words this time, just a moan.   
  
Lazy fingers and lips explore everywhere they can reach and then the hipbone is found. It's sharp and so close to the skin – because Sam's too thin. It's almost a handle Dean can grab on to and there's something so fascinating about how it feels under his hand.   
  
Sam's back rises and falls. He shifts on his knees and Dean thinks they must hurt from being held in this position for so long. A little longer – just a bit. He forces himself to keep away, touch only the muscle – the hips, the thighs, the calves. Draw it out. Make it last. Sam arches and twists and again he's fighting the ropes on his wrists.   
  
"Ssssh," Dean whispers again but it comes out on a stutter. It feels so good to fight it but even he is not that strong. He moves between Sam's legs. Finds the box height just perfect. When he leans forward his hips meet Sam's despite their difference in height. Dean's fully clothed and his jeans object but that's too much and he can't go there. Not yet. Not now. Just a little more. Just one more step.  
  
Dean presses closer and Sam pushes back. Dean's hands run up and down bare skin while Sam's hands clench and wish they could feel.   
  
A kiss exactly at the base of the spine and Sam makes a sound that can only be thought of as pitiful and Dean has a moan of his own as a reply.   
  
If only they weren't alone. If only there was some stronger force to make them come together. To take that responsibility out of their hands. But there isn't. There is only the two of them and that means it can't be blamed on forces beyond their control.   
  
Truly, truly fucked up.   
  
Dean opens his eyes and finds Sam staring at him from the other bed, the dim light from the bathroom enough to illuminate his face.   
  
"I can't sleep," Sam says softly.  
  
"Just close your eyes and it'll happen."  
  
Sam sighs. "Can I come over there?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Will you come over here?"  
  
Harder this time. "No."  
  
"I thought. . . " Sam's voice trembles.   
  
"I changed my mind," Dean says, forcing more anger than he actually feels into his voice.   
  
"Why?" A lost little boy.  
  
Because the way I imagine it is ugly and dirty and wrong? Because I can't allow my beautiful, innocent brother to be taken by such debauchery? Because once I start I won't be able to stop?  
  
"Go to sleep, Sam."  
  
"I can't." It's nearly a sob this time.  
  
"You have to." Dean rolls to the left showing Sam his back. He won't sleep, either but he's good at pretending.   
  
"You said you—"  
  
"Be quiet!" Dean pulls his knees up crunching his stomach. Crushing the ache he feels there. One of us has to be strong. One of us has to do what's right. He hears Sam roll over to face the wall. There. Done.   
  
Dean won't sleep because he might dream and once he feels it, even in a dream, he knows he'll never be able to say no again.   
  
It's just a matter of time before they do it. He's aware of the ticking clock. Tick, tick, tick. Like the blood, drip, drip, drip.   
  
Just a matter of time and then heaven help them both. . .   
  
The End.


End file.
